Death And The Honeycomb Craving
by Garmonbozia
Summary: In which a heavily pregnant Mary wants one last kill, just so she can know it's her last. Maybe she's not meant to retire just yet... [Only e knows why this fic exists]


Well, everybody gets _one_, don't they? Really, that's supposed to be what a hen night is for. That one last fling before you're married. One last chance to get up to your old tricks, really properly enjoy yourself. Everybody is entitled to _one_ free pass. And I didn't get mine on my hen night, so why can't I have it now? Of course I can. Makes perfect sense.

Oh! Oh, no, not sex, not talking about sex! Oh, no, no. Don't everybody all run off and call John all of a sudden. No, I'm not cheating on John. For God's sake, the man's child is stretching my stomach, food doesn't taste the same, my tits are so sensitive I can feel the dust in the air around them, I am _not_ having a bloody affair.

No. I'm talking about something else I used to do. Something I used to enjoy as well, until all that awfully inconvenient guilt started catching up. At least, the guilt and all the bullets with my name etched into them.

Miss Catherine Annabel Reilly has herself set up in a nice little home these days. The building is a beautiful white front in a long crescent, good view of the part, all that nonsense. She started out with a little ground floor flat with a mezzanine, and as her fortunes increased she bought the rest of the storey. Nice little place. Décor's a bit predictable. Lots of pastels and great big wall art. Not my idea of good interiors. All a bit nicey-nicey. But whatever moves her, I suppose.

After all, I'm not here to judge. The judging is done, and she was acquitted of all charges. A jury of her peers decided that dear Kitty knew nothing at all about the Moriarty deception. She, they decided, was as much a victim as anybody else, and she was awarded a nice sum in damages from the dead man's seized estate.

What little they managed to seize, anyway. I imagine he's managed to hold on to _something_, given he's still alive, back in the country and managed to take over every screen and airwave one afternoon. I imagine that takes a _certain_ backing, don't you?

Nobody questioned that verdict. Even John, he believed wholeheartedly. Kitty wasn't evil, just stupid.

Given recent developments, I do not agree. So the judging and jurying have all been done, and they got it wrong, and that just leaves me.

Judge, jury and… I'm sure you can fill in the blank.

So yes. I get just this _one_ chance to fall back into old habits. A girl could do worse. It brings back memories, you know, sitting on someone else's couch in the dark, waiting. Not all of them are bad either. It would be easier if they were. If all the memories were awful and tormented me, if there was no warmth or fondness, not in the slightest, I could walk away. I wish I didn't want to be here.

But I was bloody good at this. For a long time I didn't so much as question it. Everything else, yes. Bosses and ideologies and meanings and reasons and lifestyle choices and diets based entirely on fruit juice, yes, all of these were questioned. Constant, throughout them all, the one thing I could always depend on, was what I could do with the gun under my jacket.

Speaking of which, suppose I better get it out, get it ready…

As I reach for it, my arm disturbs my pocket. A plastic packet ruffles and releases a waft of irresistible scent. It goes direct to my brain like a drug, like a single word from the mouth of God and I forget for a moment what a gun even is, never mind how to attach a silencer or what to do with the bloody thing, there is nothing but the pocket and what's inside it. I pull them out so quickly they almost scatter everywhere. My heart stops at the simple idea of losing a single one of them. The one that gets away from me rolls under the coffee table and I watch it go with what can only be described as bereavement.

This, by the way, is what a craving feels like. For those who don't know.

All of this over a bag of bloody Malteasers. I'm averaging four bags a day. And sometimes I do mean those big family bags you get at the cinema. Not little corner shop packets. Sometimes those big boxes you give to people you don't know very well at Christmas. I have no control over this. They _take_ _away_ my self-control. They turn me into a ravening monster. When all of this is over and the damned… I mean, _darling_ creature is out from inside me, I swear I'll never eat them again.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I come to be found on the sofa with a face full of chocolate in the dark by my unsuspecting mark.

Not my finest hour, certainly.

I hold out the bag to her, "Go on. Live a little."

Kitty must be sick of break-ins; she's invested in some mace or a taser or something. I don't get to see what it is because she's made the beginner mistake of putting it in her handbag, where every woman knows the thing you need will always be in the big mess at the bottom and you _will_ pick up a miniature can of hairspray when you're in the clinch.

As calmly as I _possibly_ can, I take the hairspray out of her hand, set it on the coffee table, and scooch over. "Simmer down, sit, and stop refusing my sweets. You have no idea how honoured you are to even be offered one."

I think she knows this isn't like other visits she might have had in the past. I know John came here. Handcuffed to Sherlock, but I oughtn't think too hard about that, because I will start laughing. I know Moriarty came here as a welcome guest. But that was a while ago now. I wonder if he hasn't been back since. Anyway, Kitty knows this isn't like any of that. Her eyes glimmer as they stay trained on me. She reaches into my bag of Malteasers out of fear. I hope she's not so far gone she can't enjoy it. I really want her to. Something sweet. And, to be honest, I don't want to have given that delightful little nugget up for nothing. Basically, what I mean is, she better bloody appreciate it.

She takes one, and crunches on it. Terribly bad form, you know, you're supposed to suck off the chocolate and let the honeycomb dissolve, everybody knows that, there was a whole ad campaign about that.

That's what I'm doing. That's why it's taking me a while to get my words out. "I suppose you can guess why I'm here?" I ask. I make a decent fist of asking anyway.

"I know who you are." She didn't mishear my question. She's just in shock and this is the best way she knows how to answer. "You're Mary Watson. I read about the wedding." Just so long as she didn't read anything else about me, I suppose. "I don't know how to find him," she says. "He comes to me, I have no contact or anything and it's never traceable, and I really have no idea-"

Oh.

Well, there's a fresh and unexpected twist.

"Who?"

Kitty hesitates. Wonder how many times she's done that in her life. The look on her face speaks too clearly not to be practiced. It says, quite plainly, "Oh, I've done that big fat mouth thing, again haven't I?" Then she stammers, "M… Moriarty. Isn't that wh…? But I thought-"

"No you didn't. From what I've heard it's characteristic. So he's been in touch lately, then? That's good to know. Hold on a second." And in case she gets any ideas about not holding on a second, I pick up the gun from my side and hold it on her. Then I'm faced with an awful choice. In order to get my mobile and make a call, I need a free hand. So I have to put my Malteasers down in my lap. Only for a moment. I tell myself that with urgency. Still, my heart races, as though I were throwing them away forever.

While the phone is ringing, I get it between my shoulder and ear and pick the bag back up. My pulse settles. And just to be nice, I offer another one to Kitty. She's far too afraid not to comply.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." A click as the line is picked up. "Hello? Sherlock?"

"Mary? It's ten at night, what's going on?"

"Nothing to worry about, everything's fine. Quick question, though: this whole Moriarty thing." God, I think I _heard_ his ears prick up. That's good to know, actually. A lady should always know the triggers for the men around her, don't you think? "If I could bring you a mobile he's been calling, likely to call again, even if it's supposedly untraceable-"

"Yes."

"Haven't finished the question yet."

"Yes, Mary."

"But would you ask how I came by it? Or would you let that slide?"

A long silence. A fleshy muffling as he covers the receiver with his palm. Far away, past that, I hear a long groan as though his very soul were being torn in two. "You're not shooting anyone."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"You're the heavily pregnant wife of my best friend. You are not shooting anyone." But it's my _last_. It's my _one_. It's my hen night I didn't have on my hen night because, well, there were other people there and all they wanted to do was get drunk and watch the stripper. Would have been a lot more fun, and great for girly bonding, if we'd all had to get rid of a body together. …Could've done the stripper. "The gun's in your other hand, isn't it? Mary, put it down."

"I think you're losing perspective. Think what I can _give_ you with this gun."

"Put it down, or so help me, so many razor blades will be found in so many packets that every Malteaser in the country will be recalled, and you will suffer."

Kitty is already pawing around in her handbag again. This time she's looking into it at the same time. Her eyes light on the mace or whatever she's got. I see it happening and press the muzzle of the gun into the flesh of her temple. Like a good little girl, she takes out only her mobile phone and holds it out to me in offering. Mouthing, _Take it_.

This is _not_ why I came here. This is _not_ the dead stripper I was after. Some final fling this turned out to be. Oh God, I could _cry_, and I really oughtn't have thought the word 'cry', because what with the depth of feeling and how worked up I was and how happy and what with the hormones and everything…

"Stop it," Sherlock mutters. The slightest edge of panic on his voice. He hasn't handled my mood swings very well, these few months. "Really, now, Mary, there's no need f-"

"Oh, it wasn't bloody _you_, you idiot!" I hang up on him. Put my phone away, and _bloody sure_ I put away my Malteasers, because Kitty's not getting another, not even one of the shattered scraps in the bottom of the bag. "Do you have _any idea_," I shout at her, "what an enormous, flaming, royal disappointment you are to me?"

I shove the gun away. There's a pain, a sort of tearing feeling, as my palm peels damply from the grip. It's over. It's all over. I never get to righteously murder anyone ever again, do I? I'm properly, officially retired. John got one, got that cabbie, and Sherlock's had his, but not me, _no_, not the woman with a real talent for it, not the one who deserves it, _no_, that's too much to bleeding ask!

I snatch Kitty's phone from her extended hand on my way to the door.

Then I change my mind and go back to her. "Do me a favour. Live. Really _live_. Just remember for me, every minute of the day, that you're not supposed to be here anymore. And maybe start doing a bit of good in world, hm? Something that isn't ambitious and greedy and utterly self-serving, maybe. I don't know, just give it a try, why don't you, and remember, always, that Death sat next to you this night and offered you sweets, and you're still here. Just a little something to bearin mind, Kitty."

Now I leave, into the cool night. At the main road, I manage to pull down a cab. The driver's nice, you know, and gets out to help me into the back. Given my delicate condition, he says. I like people who refer to my 'delicate condition', it's a very pleasing phrase. My mood starts to level out a bit. Considering the company I keep, I'm sure I'll have plenty of chances to ply the old trade again. It'll be alright. I'm sure I'll cope.

I reach to my jacket pocket. Tears come harder and faster than I would have thought possible. "Oh God!" I wail, and the driver flinches. Trailing off in big, racking sobs, "We need to stop at a sweet shop!"


End file.
